A quick perusal of the room indicated there were even more people present now. For her own peace of mind, she decided to pop into the kitchen to satisfy herself that they still weren’t running low on anything.
As she exited the kitchen, relieved that they had plenty of everything, she saw Joel with his grandmother. He was guiding her protectively into the room. One thing she’d always liked about Joel was how considerate and loving he was to his grandmother. Family was important to Chelsea, and the way Joel treated his grandmother had endeared him to her when they’d first met.
As usual, Mrs. Sinclair was elegantly dressed. Unless Chelsea was mistaken, today she was wearing a Chanel evening suit in rose, a perfect color to complement her pale and remarkably unlined skin and silver-white hair. Chelsea signaled one of the waitstaff to prepare a cup of the herbal tea Mrs. Sinclair preferred, before heading over to the entrance to greet the owner.
Chelsea was pleased by the smile that appeared on Mrs. Sinclair’s face when she reached her. “Mrs. Sinclair, it’s wonderful to see you. I hope you find everything at tonight’s event to your liking.”
Mrs. Sinclair took Chelsea’s hands in her own. Her grasp was cool and unexpectedly firm. “It’s all lovely, my dear. I’m certain our gala will be a success.”
“I hope so,” Chelsea murmured. “I’ve positioned your chair next to the Angelo bronze,” she said, gesturing. “Oh, and here comes Sandra with your tea.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Sinclair said, as she accepted the cup from the waitress. “That’s very sweet of you, but enough worrying about me.”
“I’ll keep Grandmother company,” Joel assured Chelsea. “Why don’t you go mingle and sell some art,” he said, not unkindly.
“I’ll do that,” Chelsea responded with a grateful smile for Joel. “If you need anything, Mrs. Sinclair, please let me know.”
Chelsea did as Joel suggested, and she began to relax. Every indication was that the evening would be a triumph. They’d received a few advance bids above the reserve for the works that would be auctioned at the end of the evening, and she personally made a couple of minor sales. Then she saw Mr. Anderson, one of their faithful patrons, standing in front of a Babineux, obviously admiring it. If she could make that sale, it would be a bonus to an already fantastic event.
“Hello, Mr. Anderson,” she said as she stopped beside him to look at the painting of a woman and her child.
“Good evening, Chelsea.” He smiled at her briefly before turning his attention back to the painting.
“Henri Babineux, as I’m sure you know, is one of the most renowned artists of his day. This piece was painted circa 1862. Today is the first day we’re showing it. I don’t think we’ll have it long. Wouldn’t it look fabulous in your collection?”
“You might be right,” he replied. “Excellent turnout, by the way. I don’t usually go for these types of events, but I couldn’t resist coming this evening to see what new treasures you might have available.”
“I trust you’re not disappointed.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not.”
She stepped a little closer and lowered her voice. “Should I get a sold sign for it?”
“Now, now! I might be known for impulse buying, but even I’m not quite that spontaneous.” He turned shrewd eyes on her. “However, you could tell me how much it would set me back if I did decide to acquire this painting.”
Chelsea named the number in the mid six figures and knew that as pricey as it was, it wasn’t out of Mr. Anderson’s range.
His expression turned contemplative. “Let me think about it while I help myself to a glass of champagne and see what else might capture my interest.”
“Please do,” she said, not in the least disappointed. If she was a betting person, she would’ve laid money on Mr. Anderson’s buying the Babineux sooner or later. She was familiar with that look in his eyes. Once he’d moved on, she turned back to the painting. It wasn’t her preferred style, but she recognized the artistic talent. More important, she knew that the Babineux was to Mr. Anderson’s taste. She then studied the abstract next to it.
“Help me understand what, exactly, this painting is supposed to represent.” The deep voice, with a touch of humor, had Chelsea glancing over her shoulder.
Her courteous reply caught in her throat as she found herself staring into familiar bold blue eyes. “Detective Eldridge, I didn’t know you had an interest in art.”
His laugh was warm and masculine at the same time. “I don’t normally, no. And when I do, I tend to like...ah, the more mundane.”
He was standing so close, she could see the faint stubble of a day’s growth of beard, and the fine lines at the outer corners of his eyes and mouth when he smiled. There were a few strands of gray in his black hair. His scent, clean and woodsy, teased her nostrils. She let her gaze slide over him. She was sure there was a fit and impressive body under his conservative suit.
“I hope I’m not underdressed,” he said.
Chelsea felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She obviously hadn’t been as subtle in her perusal of him as she’d hoped. “Oh, no, you look perfectly fine.” Now she could feel her cheeks burn even more. “What I meant is your attire is fine. Black tie is optional. Are you here for professional or personal reasons?” she rushed on, wanting to change the subject.
“A bit of both.”
His answer perplexed her, but she remained quiet.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d enlighten me about this particular painting,” he said after a moment.
“Of course, Detective. This painting is by Jackson Pollock, who’s among the leaders of abstract expressionism.” Noting his blank look, she went on to explain. “In abstract expressionism, the artist is mostly interested in color, movement and rhythm, rather than trying to depict specific objects. The artists also worked with new ways of applying paint. Pollock, for example, used sticks to fling and drip paint on his canvases. This piece was painted in 1934 and was in a private collection until the gallery acquired it recently through auction.”
“That gives me its history, but tell me about the painting itself. And Sam is fine.”
His blue eyes and the sparkle of humor in them captivated her, and she missed his concluding comment. “I’m sorry? What did you say?”
The smile became a wide grin. “I’d prefer it if you called me Sam instead of Detective.”
“Oh, okay...Sam.”
“Now, tell me about the painting. What is it supposed to be? Aside from blobs of color, I mean.”
Chelsea should’ve been offended by his barely restrained mirth but was instead tempted to laugh along with him. Instead, she ran through the sales pitch she’d developed for the painting. “Well, as you can see, this is a painting of an enchanted forest shrouded in mist,” she concluded and glanced up at Sam.
He was staring at the canvas intently, his brows drawn together, his eyes narrowed. She tried not to feel disconcerted by his proximity.
Finally, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see it at all. This,” he said, pointing, “looks like a sand crab to me, but mostly all I see is spattered paint.”
She was about to point out the key elements of the painting to him, but the absurdity of even trying struck her. “It’s a stylized depiction of the forest,” she conceded.
“Can we at least agree that it’s highly stylized?” he asked.
Now Chelsea did laugh, but quickly clamped one hand over her mouth, her eyes darting